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the humble wool of their lives

she charmed them spinning poem out of story
and laughter out of words and deeply religious
their mother put on piety each day for holy Mass

all the while her kitchen crockery stood empty
her dish water whispered of drowning spirits
her coffee was rank with unheard confessions

her pots and pans were hot with delusion
when they walked Stations with her on Good Friday
in their seventeenth year they recognized their lives

as a Calvary of emotional whipping and crosses to bear
the father having washed his hands of them all
while she stayed to pit twin against twin

to cruely play with the humble wool of their lives
with games of schadenfreude and tag-you’re-scapegoat
until they grew too smart for her insane machinations

“One of the oddest things about being grown-up was looking back at something you thought you knew and finding out the truth of it was completely different from what you had always believed.” Patricia Briggs in Bone Crossed

© 2012, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo credit ~ Vera Kratochvil, Public Domain Pictures.net.

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“Beannacht” … that is, blessing: From Irish poet John O’Donohue in honor of St. Patrick’s Day …

The Irish poet and writer, John O’Donohue (1956-2008) was as moved by the landscape of the soul as he was by the landscape of his country with its Celtic spirituality. An ordained Catholic priest, he eventually left the priesthood, but he never abandoned the mystical roots of his Christianity. He was a Hegelian philosopher, did doctoral work on Meister Eckhart, was fluent in Irish and German, was an environmental activist, and wrote several best-selling books (both nonfiction and poetry). His most notable work was Anam Cara:A Book of Celtic Wisdom. (Anam Cara meaning soul friend.)

HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY

normal_saint_patricks_day_Shamrock_Pipes

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feast days of the heart

IMG_6835the gentle coasting of a blue dragonfly, and
this, the pulsing peace of a quiet afternoon,
Bach on the radio, dinner simmering
on the stove of my tranquility, my day
chasing night, my night chasing day,
rhythms caressing my face, love-bites
on the leg of my being, heart beating
at one with the ocean sighs and
only gratitude for the gift of life,
no more scandalized by the news of
death, baptism into heaven, whatever
that may be, but the reports center on
Kiev, Syria, Palestine, Afghanistan –
easy to foment flash-points for horror

easier to forget just how sweet it is
to breath with the sun and grow
with the cypress bending by the shore,
obeisance to the seas and sky and
living on the edge of Eternity: time to
give it up, give up strife for Lent, only
celebrate resurrections with steaming
sweet greens, scented with onion,
over shared bowls of rice, knowing the
ground of being* is a feast-day of the heart
stirred by the breeze of Spirit winging

– Jamie Dedes

* “being” as in Tillich’s third role of being: Christ manifesting as the “New Being,” the acutalization of the work of the Holy Spirit (as I understand it and I’m not a student of theology or divinity except in a most casual auto-didactic sense)

Excerpted from Issue 4 of The BeZine

To read the work of other writers and poets link HERE.

© 2014 poem, 2015, photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

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The Man Who Loved

pansy hues
pansy hues

Such a lover of color he was,
always savoring; savoring the
soul-soothing wild indigo, the
blue of a summer sky and the
·
way a daisy with yellow tummy
and white fringe reminded him
to center. He loved the roses,
thorned and feral in racy and
·
raunchy reds and salacious
pinks, accenting the landscape,
exploding with an earthy laugh.
Peppermint was known to trip
·
him into ecstasy; the licorice scent
of fennel to tickle his fancy from
hat to boots. Trees were wise,
with their bulk, age, and sage
·
gnarled trunks. He loved the
sun, setting in Arizona colors,
flaming yellows and oranges,
rising at dawn in New York’s
·
spring peach and pansy hues.
An amiable meal and a good
night’s sleep were raptures
treasured. A cup of coffee, a
·
glass of wine, magical elixirs.
He loved his child too, going
about the business of play, fresh
hands rummaging in new worlds.
·
He loved. He just loved –
….today’s joy,
……..tomorrow’s hope,
…………yesterday’s confusions …

“I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda in The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems

© 2010 (poem), 2014 (photograph), Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved